In the Arms of the King

by Heather Killough-Walden

  His smile turned downright cruel as he ran his hand up the length of her leg from her knee to her upper thigh. From there, they traveled further up, and Dahlia went very, very still. He heard her little breaths, quick and short as his fingers found the edge of those satin panties. He ran his fingertips along their seam.

  “You’re wet, angel,” he told her.

  She gave a helpless whimper, and he felt her power brush against his, pushing back. He was raising her ire, bringing out the fight in her. He liked that.

  “You aren’t going to forget our deal, are you?” he asked casually as his fingers curled beneath the band of her panties where they rested in the curve between her long leg and his ultimate goal. He lowered his body closer, his lips inches from hers when his fingertips found the welcome softness of silky curls that had been dampened with building pleasure.

  Oh gods….

  His own breath hitched. His cock raged painfully. He so badly wanted to show restraint. He needed to maintain control. But that sweet, slick touch ramrodded through him like an activation switch. All at once, his vision shifted into reds and blacks. His pupils dilated. Dahlia Kellen encompassed all he had ever desired or ever could desire. In that moment, she became his only goal, his ultimate prey.

  Predator viciously awakened, body hard with merciless need, Lazaroth proceeded to invade his queen. He grasped the flimsy material of her underwear and gave a single quick yank. The garment came away easily, and he was free of any further barriers.

  His hand was once more on her leg, trailing over the same path he’d made before, and Dahlia’s movements became restless beneath him. His fingers moved indelibly further, slipping ruthlessly past the joining curve of her leg, through her silken black curls, and finally to the slick, warm opening he had made so vulnerable.

  Suddenly, Dahlia’s quick breaths stopped, and she moaned helplessly. Blood welled on her lip where it was caught between her teeth as he pressed his fingers inside her, slowly slipping into the tight wetness at her core.

  *****

  He held her there, having breached some small part of her, and fought with the monster raging inside him. But she was being overtaken by her nature and the heat of his touch. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession, and her long, lean legs squirmed, unable to remain still. She wanted more and she wanted less.

  She would not get less. And the more was going to come excruciatingly slowly – for them both. It was killing him to not simply ravage her right there on his car. But it was killing him in the most delicious way.

  “Again, do not move,” he commanded softly but firmly, his tone unforgiving. He slowly rose above her, his fingers still embedded within her, and sat back between her legs. With his free hand, he reached over her and grasped the shoulder strap of her velvet red dress, curling his fingers menacingly around it.

  She knew what was coming. He could see the knowledge reflected there in her stunning gemstone eyes. They shined with a lust she did not want to admit, and he couldn’t blame her. He was the monster above her, all threats and dark promises. But he could barely care. He would do anything it took to claim her. In that moment, there was nothing else in the world but Dahlia and the sweet salvation she offered.

  With that thought, he ripped the dress from her body in one clean pull and pressed his fingers deeper inside her. She cried out as the dress tore beautifully, shredding into red ribbons of material around her, like a sacrificial blanket so stark and scarlet against her milky skin. Her breathing became frantic, and he saw her fingers press into the hood of the car, searching for purchase as if she would fall into some deep, bottomless abyss.

  He smiled his cold smile and thought, Oh, but you are.

  “Please,” she barely managed. A single word through the ragged breaths, a beseeching plea. But for what? He laughed. For mercy?

  From him?

  “What is it, angel? Afraid you’ll be seen? Out here in the night, exposed and helpless?”

  She said nothing as he slowly pulled his fingers out of her – and pressed them back in. But he could read the reflections in her eyes. Even as she began to move her hips to meet his hand, even as she was helpless to want the pleasure he offered, she was afraid of that. She was afraid of being seen.

  Not that it would happen. He finally broke eye contact with her and allowed his gaze to travel over her body, taking in every smooth curve, every deep valley, and every deliciously perfect inch of her form. Her breasts were round and firm, her waist narrow, her hips tantalizingly curved. Her skin was taut and beaded with tiny droplets of perspiration. Those droplets dampened the ends of long strands of black hair that clung to her neck and the tops of her breasts, and tipped the ends of her long, thick, dark lashes.

  She was the very image of sexual desire. She was perfection.

  He would die a thousand deaths before he allowed another man to see what he was seeing. She was his alone. This was his alone. No one was going to come out of that club. He had so much control over the humans in the building, it was like playing doll house with a child. They danced and drank and talked inside as he touched his queen intimately in the parking lot and listened to the sweet sounds of her helplessness.

  But she didn’t need to know she was safe from their gazes. There was something about her fear that fed his desire like gasoline on a building blaze.

  He brushed the fingers of his free hand along her hip bone. She moved a little, shocked at the heat of his touch, but then no doubt recalled his words. Don’t move. And he meant them.

  As if to defy him in the smallest way, Dahlia turned her head, now free of his capturing gaze. He watched her close her eyes, shutting them tight.

  A spike of meanness went through him, and he lowered his head to her beautiful breast. Her nipple had hardened long ago in the night air. It waited, erect and tight, for his torture. He wasn’t going to disappoint it. The heat of his mouth closed over her nub and latched on, sucking hard before he pulled her nipple between his teeth and bit down.

  Dahlia bucked beneath him and cried out, her hands flying to his shoulders.

  He immediately released her breast and looked up, meeting her gaze. “You moved,” he scolded gently. But then he lowered his head again and flicked her nipple with his tongue. She gasped and squirmed, and he responded by brushing his thumb against her clitoris as he continued to fuck her with his fingers.

  She raised her legs, bending them around him, disobeying him all to hell. And he smiled. His fangs, long, sharp and gleaming, no doubt shone eerily in the parking lot lights.

  He felt Dahlia’s fingers squeeze the tops of his shoulders when he pulled the taut little button of her nipple between his teeth once more and bit down a second time. He could taste the redness in it now; it was swelling under his attentions, and Dahlia rose to meet his mouth, her body controlled by pure instinct.

  But there was a new ache awakening in Laz. He was in pain with need, so hard he felt a punishing throb with every beat of his heart. But that wasn’t all… there was something more.

  He let go of her breast, slowly releasing it with a last kiss that had Dahlia tossing her head to the other side in frustrated need.

  He had a need too.

  He rose above her again, and spoke a simple command. His words rang out in an ancient language, one that moved through him now as natural as his blood. His clothing faded away, falling to scraps that turned to wisps of smoke that were then caught on an unseen breeze. They mixed and mingled with the red scraps of smoke that had once been Dahlia’s dress and rose into the night oblivion above them.

  Then he took Dahlia’s wrists in his hands and held them to the hood of his car. “Dahlia, look at me.”

  She hesitated, defying him by shutting her eyes tightly. So he let go of her wrists and took her face in his hands, turning her head. He gave the command again, this time with more magic lacing his words. “I said look at me.”

  Now her lids flew open.

  When she looked into his eyes, she grew still. Her pu
pils expanded and her eyes widened. He could only imagine what she must have been seeing. What he must have looked like as he peered down at her through a reddened haze of lust and craven need. He knew she saw his teeth. And he knew that she was well aware he was going to use them.

  On her.

  “Tell me again what you will give me, Dahlia,” he commanded. It was a soft command, spoken in a whisper. But it was deep and it was dark and he would have his answer.

  She licked her swollen, bitten lips and winced. And then she took a quick shallow breath and, pressing her hands to his shoulders, she said, “Anything.”

  He held that gaze as he lined up his aching cock with her entrance. “I want you, Dahlia. Will you give that to me?”

  Dahlia gasped when she felt the heat of him against her. His kind burned hot – so very hot. His blood, molten red, heated his entire body and engorged his cock with fire. He rested like a brand against her, threatening, promising.

  “Oh gods…” she whispered, closing her eyes out of pure instinct.

  “No,” he said firmly. Her eyes flew open again. “You will look at me, Dahlia.”

  She breathed raggedly in response, but did not look away.

  “Now, answer me.” He pressed forward into her, ever so slightly, breaching the boundaries of her slick, tight defenses.

  Dahlia made a choked sound of surprise sound beneath him, her eyes widening further. He knew it hurt. And he knew it was pleasure incarnate. It was that place where rapture and agony met, that red hot border between love and hate. He was going to take her there – and she was going to ask him to.

  “Will you surrender yourself, Dahlia? Will you give yourself to me?”

  Dahlia stilled again. And then, against all odds, she moved her hands from where she had been squeezing his shoulders in desperation, and instead gently cupped his face. Unlike his, her touch was cool and tender, and it awakened something different inside Lazaroth.

  She looked deeply into the hell of his gaze for a long moment as he pulsed just inside her and he ached in magnificent misery. And then she said, “Yes, Steven. I give myself to you.”

  Lazaroth heard her words and embraced them with his entire being. It took a split second for them to register, for their musical beauty to infiltrate his system and his soul – before he slammed his hands down onto the hood of the car and shoved into his queen with everything he had.

  The overhead lights in the parking lot flickered and zapped, going on and off as Dahlia threw back her head and screamed into the night. He pressed in to the hilt, sliding past every precious inch of resistance like a dark, dark prayer until he filled her completely. A madness was climbing up inside him. He felt it rise, a sense of urgency, of untold desperation.

  Another low growl rose from the depths of his throat, vibrating the car and the ground around them. He bared his dangerous teeth as he pulled himself slowly out of her gripping, heavenly sheath and then pressed hungrily into her again, every hot inch of his manhood burying itself readily in her tightness. Dahlia cried out in synchronicity with his plunder, her fingernails at last finding purchase in the muscles of his shoulders.

  They drew tiny half moons of blood that welled up and steamed in the cool night air, further testament to his demonic heritage. Dully, he wondered if they would scar.

  But they were no more than foreplay to Lazaroth. The demon growled again, his movements becoming more feverish, his need more demanding. He pulled out of Dahlia, nearly all the way, and thrust madly into her to the point of pain. Dahlia’s head tossed to the side, her hair flying, and Lazaroth’s red world suddenly and briefly saw bits of color.

  Steven….

  He wasn’t even sure he’d heard it right, this passing realization and tiny, almost insignificant word. His mind was too far gone, his body in complete control. He shoved his hand through Dahlia’s hair, fisting it tightly in his fingers, then pulled. Her head fell back, exposing the long column of her white throat. She gasped loudly, but her cry was cut short when he violently thrust into her again.

  Magic began to leak off him. He felt it like steam, like sweat, purple and mystic as it coiled around the lovers in the darkness, two writhing bodies on a black car on a black night. The lights again flickered in response. In the far corner of the lot, one of them exploded.

  Steven….

  Again, the color of something vital sliced through Lazaroth’s madness. But it was gone as fast as it had come, and the monster was again in control. It knew what it needed. It would have it.

  “You’re mine, Dark Angel,” he told Dahlia plainly. His voice was hoarse and harsh with lust and need, but it was a spell and a curse and it wrote Dahlia’s fate out like blood on a contract. Lazaroth lowered his lips to her vulnerable throat and kissed her, just once, with outright tenderness.

  Then he bared his long, sharp fangs and drove them deep into her neck.

  This time, she couldn’t scream. Not a sound came out of Dahlia’s mouth as her eyes flew open and her body arched against his. The magic surrounding them swelled and expanded, darkening in color as Dahlia’s power began to join it. The light at the end of the lot zapped back to life, and then every one of them turned bright purple.

  A wind picked up in the parking lot when Lazaroth’s soul reached out to its mate for the life only it could give him.

  Steven….

  He shut his eyes tight as his body moved. In his mind’s eye, he was moving in a dark room. He stretched and grasped. Somewhere, there was a light. A candle’s flame in the blackness. Come to me, he thought. He felt his teeth gripping tight, holding Dahlia fast. Give in to me.

  For it was not only her body he needed. It was her mind. Her spirit. Her dark, purple fire. It was her life he so desperately needed, beside him always, around him forever, his and only his. Her life… her very soul.

  Steven.

  This time, the word was a name. And he recognized it. In that room of black, in that yawning darkness, he heard her beautiful voice speak two precious syllables. And he realized the beginnings of something that threatened to change everything.

  The demon in him, the Curse in him, rebelled. It wanted control. It needed control. It was power and respect and revenge. It was the sharp edge of a sword, the business end of a gun. It was the signature on an assassin’s contract. It was him – it had him. It didn’t want to let go.

  But….

  “Yes, Steven.”

  That was what she had said.

  Lazaroth plowed into his queen with the demon mad thrusts of a man on the edge. But Dahlia did not fight him. Instead, she wrapped her long legs around his waist and ran her fingers through his thick black hair. She gave herself to him as if she wanted him just as badly. As if she trusted him just as much.

  “I give myself to you.” He recalled her words.

  Color sliced through his darkness, a light in the dark room. He spun in his mind, reaching, yearning. A candle flame flickered, precious and delicate in the slightest breeze. He held his breath and gazed at it. It was everything. It was his life. Her life. It was them, together, forever. Connected.

  “Yes, Steven. I give myself to you.” That was the magic word she’d uttered. She had called him Steven. Dahlia had called him Steven. Not Lazaroth. Not Detective. But Steven.

  Because that is who I am to her.

  Laz’s body was climbing. He moved fast now, his fingers pressing so hard into the hood of the car, they left furrows in the paint and metal beneath.

  That is who I am….

  In the room in his mind, the candle flame grew, becoming stronger. It shed light into the darkness of the room and beckoned him closer. He reached out, tentative and frightened. But hopeful. He knew the path now. He’d found his way out of the dark forest.

  That is who I must be. Steven Lazarus. For her.

  He stepped back onto the path.

  For us.

  The candle flame exploded into a bonfire, completely enveloping him in its warmth. He felt the demon connection between them at
last, the flame that would never sear, but always keep them warm, as long as they were together. Engulfed in those comforting flames, he came to a sudden realization.

  Dahlia hadn’t done this to save any other man – but to save him. She’d brought him back from the realm of monsters, pulled him out of the forest, and reawakened the half of him that was his mother’s soul. The half of him that was Steven.

  The demon would always reside within him. But now he would be both halves of the coin, as any man was. Good and bad. Right and wrong.

  And Dahlia had given him everything to make this happen. This knowledge, this truth, was a salve on the burning fury that had nearly taken him, heart and soul.

  In the parking lot, he withdrew his fangs from her throat and threw back his head to roar into the night as he came inside his queen. Again and again, he throbbed and pulsed inside her, painfully and wonderfully and hellishly. Dahlia screamed with him, clutching him tight and convulsing around him as they reached that summit in tandem and went over the edge together.

  It took forever for him to ride it out. They rode it out as one. And when they finally came down from that high, it was to find the world quiet but for the crackling sounds of a fire. Steven blinked and turned his head, holding himself up with his arms.

  They were surrounded by a ring of sparkling, purple fire. The dark blaze formed a tall burning circle around the car, shutting out the rest of the world. It wasn’t hot, only warm.

  Dahlia turned her head to take it in, then looked back up at Steven. “It’s Stale Fire,” she said softly. Her voice was hoarse from screaming. It sounded well used. It was fucking sexy. He wanted to take her again.

  “What is Stale Fire?” he asked, only half caring. The other half of him was entranced by the beauty he was still firmly embedded in.

  She smiled. “It’s my fire,” she said.

  Steven thought about that for a moment. Then, knowing she would explain it all in good time, he simply smiled. For the first time in Steven’s life, he was comfortable in his skin. Especially where it was right now.